


Sex, Pizza and the Apocalypse

by zhiverny6



Category: Damien (TV)
Genre: Disappointed Satanists, Fix-It, Fluff, Humor, Merlin References, Multi, Non-explicit confused apocalyptic orgy dubcon?, dubcon?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-23
Updated: 2016-12-23
Packaged: 2018-09-11 06:19:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8962285
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zhiverny6/pseuds/zhiverny6
Summary: Set immediately after the finale, the members of Armitage learn that the Apocalypse isn't quite what they were hoping for.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Maverick](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maverick/gifts).



> This is a Yuletide treat. Thanks to N for the beta and for pointing out that "Confused Satanists" might need a dubcon warning. And I was just afraid that it was too goofy. Please, feel free to skip if you wish. Happy Yuletide!

The Apocalypse was not going to plan.

First, there was the orgy.

It had all been going so well. The senior members of Armitage and other Satanic societies had gathered in the graveyard as had been prophesied. They had witnessed the Antichrist, bathed in the blood of an ally, finally accept his unholy crown. Even his fierce resistance had been a good sign. They had learned, through bitter experience, that anyone crazy enough to want the job was probably too crazy to succeed at it. His own agony had been the perfect sacrifice.

A number of innocents had been drawn in by proximity to the event, townspeople and travelers with glazed expressions, unwitting sheep to the slaughter.

And one known enemy, the police detective who’d foolishly tried to thwart the inevitable, knelt shuddering and weeping, and wouldn’t _that_ be fun?

All watched as the hastily appointed new leader of Armitage raised his hands in supplication and intoned, “We serve thee, son of the Fallen One, in all thy glory and all thy rage. We follow thee into the new dawn and unto death. Tell us, lord, what is thy will?”

The Antichrist, face still wet with blood, looked over the assembled crowd. He looked at the woman beside him, who had been killed and resurrected to force his compliance. He looked at the detective, who stared back in mute horror. He looked at Ann Rutledge, who beamed at him with a secret smile. Finally, he stared at the supplicant a long moment, opened his mouth and said… what to an unenlightened mind would have sounded like an obscenity, but in this context, they decided, must have been a command.

An orgy shouldn’t have been surprising, one of the devotees argued, if some of the more lurid prophesies were to be believed. Because some people were happy to argue obscure medieval texts in the middle of an orgy, in the middle of the Apocalypse.

That Rutledge woman _had_ come prepared for an orgy. Of course she had. Or maybe she just always travelled around with a huge supply of lubricant, condoms, thick blankets and tick repellant. Enough to share with everyone, one would think, but infuriatingly she only chose to share them with people she liked. Most of whom did not include the senior members of Armitage.

The dazed innocents did not understand the momentousness of the occasion, naturally. They seemed to think they had stumbled upon a strange sort of outdoor party. Some joined in, some paired off with each other, and a few looked around, muttered, “Tourists,” and wandered off home.

Most disturbing were the dogs. They just sat there, watching, in the creepy way that dogs sometimes do. It was hard to get into the spirit of things. You wouldn’t think the most unsettling thing about the Apocalypse would be the silent judgment of a rottweiler.

Some time before dawn, the zombie arrived. He ran about the graveyard, shaking people and shouting at them, before collapsing on the ground to watch the proceedings with a sort of dazed horror.

At least, he certainly _looked_ like a zombie, covered in mud and blood, as if he had stumbled through fifty miles of thicket after clawing his way out of his own grave. Which he must have done, one of the devotees muttered, as he had personally spent an hour and a half burying the man, and the prophesied slaughter of innocents was going to take a lot longer if people kept refusing to stay dead.

The Antichrist and the woman who had been sacrificed walked over and sat down on either side of the newcomer. The man gestured a little wildly at the celebrants, shaking his head and looking at the Antichrist as if demanding an explanation. The Antichrist just shrugged and rolled his eyes. He brushed some of the dirt off the man’s face and out of his hair, looking him over. “So,” he asked, “how was _your_ day?”

The man stared at him a long moment, then answered, “Oh, you know. I died.” He rubbed the dirt off his hands, then gave a shaky smile. “It didn’t take.”

“So did I,” said the woman, casually. She leaned over, took his face in her hands, and kissed him. And the festivities continued.

Some while later, the Antichrist decided he wanted pizza. Everyone picked up at this, until it became clear that everyone wasn’t invited. Most of the townspeople and some of the minions had wandered off, but the senior members remained, awaiting his pleasure.

The Antichrist and his previously deceased companions had picked through the discarded clothing, as their own were all covered in blood. The devotees eyed each other warily, quickly claiming whatever clothing was closest to them so they wouldn’t be left without.

Climbing into one of the SUVs, the Antichrist turned to his devoted followers. “Go home, all of you,” he shouted, before slamming the door. “For God’s sake, take a shower.”

This was a confusing command, they decided, as the reference to God meant the order should be reversed. Which meant they could come along for pizza after all.

The Rutledge woman had already left, which was surprising until it was discovered that she had taken all of their keys and most of their wallets. They looked after the Antichrist’s retreating car forlornly and began to walk.

On the way into town, it began to rain. They looked up hopefully, but it did not appear to be a rain of blood, or even frogs. It did not seem to signify the imminent end of creation. It only meant they were now cold and wet, in addition to sticky, sore and covered in burrs. Still, with the vagaries of weather, it could be different somewhere else. One county over, it could be frogs.

When they finally found the small pizza parlor, the Antichrist and his companions were already halfway through their meal. Ancient prophesies suggested that, at the dawning of the Apocalypse, the Antichrist would feast on the blood of innocents, not a large vegetarian and a basket of buffalo wings.

The remaining devotees shuffled in and casually slipped into different booths, glancing through the menu as if deciding what to order. The Antichrist glared at them. They tried to look as though, while they were certainly _ready_ to serve his every hellish whim if called upon, they had really only stopped in on their way somewhere else.

A few pooled what change they had found and went up to the counter to look at the menu. The two women working there had clearly been present at the great event. Their uniforms were disheveled, and they kept unconsciously petting each other when they got close – but they were also muttering to each other about overtime, and why would anyone want pizza at 6:30 in the morning, anyway? The one at the register watched the devotees impatiently.

At a table by the window, the detective sat alone. No one, it seemed, had stolen _his_ keys, or his wallet, which hardly seemed fair. He was gazing out the window with a bemused expression, the small supreme pizza untouched in front of him. Two of the hellhounds sat staring fixedly at the pizza, their noses about four inches away. One gave a little whine and, without looking, he absently picked off a sausage and tossed it to the hound, who snatched it up. The other one huffed a complaint, and he handed it a pepperoni before he slowly turned to look, a confused frown forming on his face.

“Well,” the Antichrist said, watching from his table a few feet away. “Now you’ve fed them, you’ll never get rid of them.”

The detective blinked over at him, then stared down at the dogs in dawning horror.

The Antichrist walked over, grinning wickedly. Looking at the detective, he rubbed the hounds’ ears, saying, “Who’s a good dog? Are you a good dog? Yes, you are.” They bowed their heads solemnly, licked his hands, and went over to the detective. One lay it’s head in his lap, the other lay down to drool on his shoes, looking for all the world like, well, dogs, rather than ravenous hellbeasts.  Dogs with sausage breath.  “I hear they’re great family pets,” the Antichrist said. “Very loyal.” The detective did not look reassured.

The Antichrist looked at his adversary. “It’s for you,” he said. A moment later, the detective’s phone rang, making him jump, and he stared at it a moment before answering.

“Patrick? Honey? Are you alright? Is Jacob alright?” he asked, desperately. “No, I’m out, I’m… I…” He looked frantically at the Antichrist, at his companions, at the devotees, at the world. Then he said, in the smallest voice, “I want to come home.” He turned his shoulder as if trying to ignore that everyone was listening to him. “Yes. Yeah, ok,” he said quietly.

He stood and turned to go, took three steps, and stopped. He closed his eyes, and seemed to be fighting some internal battle. Then he took a deep breath, gritted his teeth, and turned around.

“Go home,” the Antichrist said, quietly. “For now.”

The detective opened his mouth to say something. Then, after a moment, he just nodded quickly and turned back toward the door. He put the phone back to his ear. “No, I’ll tell you later. You won’t believe… It’s been a crazy, crazy…”

“Don’t.” The sacrifice, the woman he had accidentally shot, brushed her fingers against the detective’s leg as he passed. He looked down at her, putting the phone to his chest. “Don’t try to explain any of this. My advice.” She waved her hand, taking in the room. “Flowers are good, though. Or...” she considered, “pastry?”

“…Right,” the detective said, watching her take a sip of iced tea. “Thanks.”

He put the phone back to his ear. “No, uh, nothing. I’ll be back soon. I love you.” As he got to the door, the dogs bounded out ahead of him. “O…kay.” He looked back at the Antichrist, who was definitely not smirking at him. He took a deep breath. “Hey, I got a dog. Well, two dogs. Apparently.” He tried to sound enthusiastic. He did not succeed. “Yeah, Jacob should be happy.”

The devotees waited expectantly. The car would explode, or the dogs would attack. Something. They watched the hounds scuffle over who got to ride shotgun, until the detective said, firmly, “No. In the back.” They both clambered into the backseat and, a moment later, he drove off.

They listened carefully for the sound of a crash. All they heard was the woman at the register announcing that they all had to order something or they all had to leave.

This was not how it was meant to be. Thousands of years of apocalyptic prophesy and the only ones who seemed to be suffering were them. Even _that_ would have been acceptable if it were at least good, proper demonic torture. They’d signed up for that.

One said it was probably a long, complicated, _insidious_ plan, the hellishness of which would only be revealed in time. The others told him to shut up and drink his water.

The devotees at the counter had come back with a bowl of bread sticks, which weren’t really enough to go around.

Quietly, someone muttered they should _do_ something. No one responded, but everyone listened. They’d done things before, another whispered. To get things back on track. To _force_ him. To get it _right_.

Oh, well, sure, they’d done things _before_ , said the one still sullenly drinking his water. When he was just another misguided mortal. They could have kept knocking off his friends until he went mad with grief. They could have killed _him_ and just waited for the next poor bastard… er, anointed Son of the Fallen One. Anything they did now would be Opposing the Adversary. They’d be on the side of the angels. You know, unless you _liked_ that kind of thing.

The zombie, who was looking much less like a zombie now that he’d cleaned up and had something to eat, stretched out his arms. He wrapped his hand lightly around the back of the Antichrist’s neck and gave him a little shake. “So,” he asked, “ready to go?”

“Soon,” the Antichrist answered.

“We waiting for something?” the man asked.

The Antichrist nodded, and the devotees rejoiced.

 _Now_ it would happen! Now the final destruction would begin, and their loyalty would be rewarded. The New Dawn! Oh, they may have gotten a few of the details wrong, but the prophesy was clear. _This_ was the one they’d waited centuries for. _This_ one was special.  _This_ one would reign. It was his _destiny_.

And then the damn wizard showed up.


End file.
